


Say When

by withershins



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Nontraditional Vampires, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-17 08:30:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11271762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withershins/pseuds/withershins
Summary: Everyone knows Zhenya got the bite too early.  Zhenya knows it most of all.





	Say When

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maur/gifts).



When Zhenya's five he already knows he's destined to get the bite someday.  Some kids his age _think_ they will, that they're going to be one of the special people who get chosen to be turned, but Zhenya _knows_ he is.  He doesn't understand what one in a million odds are, he doesn't notice the indulgence with which his mom smiles at him whenever he tells her, he doesn't care how impossible it will be.  He's going to be a vampire one day.

Vampires are special.  Zhenya feels special, too, so of course he's going to eventually be chosen.  It's how the world works.  Worthy people are always found and bitten.

When Zhenya's twelve, he worries he's never going to get the bite.  Most of the kids his age have let go by now of the dream of getting turned, because in their city dreams that stretch beyond their mountain don't last long.  But Zhenya's eyes have always roved far beyond the factory horizons of Magnitogorsk, and even though he understands long odds better now than when he was five, his heart still hungers.  It hungers, and now it knows enough to fear.

He worries he's not special enough.  He has a knack for hockey, and more importantly a voracious love for it, but he has no idea if that will be enough when he's so small and, based on his parents, unlikely to ever get very big.

And even if he does get big enough and talented enough, he knows now that doesn't guarantee him the bite.  The world isn't so fair as he once thought, and sometimes big dreams don't mean anything at all.

He's going to try, though.  Chasing after what he wants is all he's ever known how to do.

When Zhenya's seventeen, he wishes with everything he is that he'll get the bite someday.  Not just for the sake of the bite itself anymore, but because it'll mean his hockey is finally good enough.  Hockey is—everything.  It's how he's going to pay his family back and take care of them.  It's how he's going to get his name beyond the borders of this city.  And it's the song in his bones that dances behind his eyes every time he falls asleep.

He's going to make it to the NHL someday.  He's going to prove his worth, prove his heart and his skill, prove that he belongs among the _best._  And then, once he's proven himself, maybe he'll be rewarded the bite.  God, he hopes he will.  His chest is too small to hold all the longing he carries.

When Zhenya's nineteen, he gets the bite.

It breaks his heart.

 

The first thing Sidney Crosby ever says to Zhenya, face-to-face on a late-summer evening, is a straightforward invitation to drink from him, complete with a tilted head and bared neck.

Zhenya doesn't understand the words until Sergei translates them, and even then he doesn't quite believe them.  He blames it first on the travel-weariness dragging at his bones, blames it on the shock of leaving his family, his clan, his country.  No way is Sidney Crosby inviting the likes of Zhenya to drink from him.

Sidney Crosby is a born vamp—this is no secret.  If vampires are special, then born vamps, called the divinum, are priceless.  Zhenya's lucky to be breathing the same air as Crosby, never mind any mention of drinking from him.  Zhenya must have misheard.

Zhenya smiles and ducks his head, looking away from the temptation of Crosby's pale neck.  He hopes the conversation moves past his awkwardness soon.

But Crosby looks between Zhenya and Sergei, expression confused, and says something again in English.

"Zhenya," gently hisses Sergei, eyebrows saying something meaningful.  "He's asking if you want to drink from him.  He says you look exhausted."

Or maybe Zhenya didn't mishear.  He chokes on nothing.

The gathered company all look to him with concern, and he manages to shake his head.

"Thank you, but no," he has an unimpressed Sergei translate for him.  "I'm fine."

Crosby still looks confused but doesn't offer again.  Zhenya makes it through the rest of the surreal night by saying very little and keeping his head down.  Out of the corner of his eye he catches Crosby looking at him more than once, but Zhenya diligently avoids making eye contact.

Zhenya has only met one born vamp in his life, and that was the one who turned him, a few months ago.  She too was inhumanly beautiful, the way all the divinum are: elegant, strong, confident.  She too had been difficult to look directly in the eye, when the knowledge of Zhenya's own inadequacy was so present in his gut.

Everyone knows Zhenya was given the bite too early.  Zhenya knows it most of all.  The bite is supposed to be awarded to those who distinguish themselves as truly exceptional; for hockey, that usually means those who have won a high enough individual trophy, or those who were instrumental in their team's success, or those who have broken a significant record, or sometimes just those who have performed at a consistent level of excellence for many years.  A candidate's name is submitted to a council of the divinum, based in Rona, a special city where only born vamps can set foot.  The candidate's name is considered, and, if found worthy, the divinum send one of their own to give them the bite.

In theory, this is what happened with Zhenya.  In reality, he knows Metallurg pulled some strings and petitioned the divinum with his name during the busiest time in Rona, so that his case might receive lighter scrutiny, and somehow he slipped through the cracks and was given the bite before he ever got the chance to prove himself truly deserving of it.

He wasn't turned because he had earned it.  What has done yet that is worthy of it?  Nothing.  He was turned because Metallurg wanted to tie him even tighter to his hometown team, and they had just enough sway to see it happen.  He broke clan ties and fled to the US anyway, but the joke's still on him—he's the one who has to live forever with the dishonor of never having truly earned his bite.  He's the one who has to face—has to play with—Sidney Crosby knowing the full weight of his unworthiness.

"What was that back there?" Sergei asks him later that night, on their way to the Gonchar house.  Zhenya is barely keeping his eyes open, the exhaustion of the past week catching up to him, and he presses his head to the glass of the car window and doesn't look towards him.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play stupid with me.  I'm talking about what happened with Sid.  You refusing to drink from him.  What was that?"

Zhenya closes his eyes.  Just to rest them, just for a minute.

"I don't want to talk about it right now."

Sergei makes an annoyed noise but doesn't press.  Zhenya is not so foolish as to assume this means he's dropped the matter for good.

Sure enough, five minutes later they pull into the driveway of a tidy, welcoming house, and Sergei puts the car in park and turns to look at him fully.

"Zhenya," he says, too close to gentle now.  "I remember what Metallurg's clan is like.  And I'm sure you miss them.  But this is going to be your clan now, and snubbing the clan leader on your first day here—"

"I wasn't snubbing him!" Zhenya objects, straightening away from the window.  "How could you think—?  He's a divinum, and I'm only an electi.  It's impossible for me to snub him."  Even an electi, a turned vamp, doesn't have the clout to snub a divinum.  Especially not an electi who everyone knows didn't properly earn his bite.

"Then why did you refuse?"

Zhenya drops his eyes.  "You know why."

"I really don't.  Hence the reason I'm asking.  Unless—" Sergei pauses a moment.  "You know better than to apply the rules of Metallurg's clan to your new clan, right?  I know they were strict about the hierarchy of who could drink from whom, but that's not how the Penguins do things here."

"I know."  Every vampire clan has its own rules, and hockey clans especially can be particularly varied.  Some hockey clans even count human teammates as full clan members.  Metallurg wasn't like that, few Russian hockey clans are, but he's heard it's slightly more common in North America.

"Then why?"

Zhenya's hands clench in his lap.  "I'm not good enough to drink from him, or have him drink from me.  It's obvious—you don't need to be kind and pretend you don't know.  I know I'm not worthy of it yet."

Sergei stares, then mutters something tired and exasperated sounding under his breath.  He rubs at his temple.

A little worried, Zhenya asks, "Do you think I offended him?  Crosby?"

"Offended?  I don't know, maybe.  He's a difficult one to read at times.  You at least confused him.  If you really don't feel worthy of drinking from him, you need to tell him that, so there's no more confusion.  And maybe he can deal with your stubborn ass," he adds more quietly, as though to himself.

"Tell him?"

"Yes.  Actual communication.  I can translate for you, if you like.  But it's important you don't start off on the wrong foot with him, you understand that, right?"

"I...suppose so."  Zhenya is quiet for a moment, considering.  "Then, can you teach me how to say it the right way in English?  So I can say it to him myself."

"Of course."  Sergei eyes the bags under Zhenya's eyes and adds, "Tomorrow.  You really do look exhausted.  Here, drink from me, and then I'll show you your room."  He holds out his arm.

It's considered an honor for an electi to agree to drink from a human.  In Magnitogorsk, the electi only ever drank from each other, never from their human teammates.  But this is a new team and a new clan, and Zhenya kind of likes the casual way Sergei offered, like it was done out of friendship rather than respect for Zhenya's status.

Gratefully, he takes the hand and bites shallowly into Sergei's wrist, sinking his fangs in gently.  Blood fills his mouth, not as sweet as another vampire's would taste, certainly not as heavenly as Crosby's would have tasted, but perfectly filling and adequate.  He drinks until he's full, completely sated for the first time in weeks.

 

A month or so is enough time for Zhenya, aided by Sergei, to better learn the rules of his new clan.  It's not at all like Metallurg.  It seems the Penguins are one of those clans that count human teammates as full members, giving them just as much say in clan matters as anyone else.  The rules for drinking are likewise extremely loose.  There are only two rules: that both parties consent freely, and that any mid-game drinking happens in the locker room at intermissions and not on the bench.  Other than that, it seems there is very little ceremony or structure involved.

The first time he had passed by Roberts causally snacking on Staal's arm in the middle of the hallway pre-game, Staal's eyes lidded with the typical lazy pleasure that humans feel when being drunk from, Zhenya had been shocked, he admits that.  But he's getting used to it now, the laxness.  He maybe even likes it.  He can see the potential, at least, for the way it bonds the whole team together, not just the vampires.  The division between vampire and human in Magnitogorsk had been much more clearly defined.

At first Zhenya only drinks from Sergei, a little shy and still uncertain of the culture and rules here, but that doesn't last long.  Max, a definite pest, quickly badgers his way in and practically demands to be drunk from by Zhenya.  Zhenya goes with it and finds he enjoys Max's particular irreverent strain of friendship.  From there, it's easy to start branching to drinking from other teammates, mostly the humans but occasionally the other electi as well.

There are three electi on the team besides Zhenya, and all of them are over 35 years old—Cup-winners, established elites, the kind of players people tend to think of when they picture electi.  And then there's Crosby.

Crosby may be a born vamp, but he's also kind of a dork.  Zhenya feels a little treasonous just thinking it, but it's true.

Crosby's got a terrible laugh—a softly honking, graceless laugh that really has no business coming out of the mouth of one of the most elite beings on the planet.  It's endearing, but divinum aren't supposed to be endearing.  The first time Zhenya hears it he stares until Army, across the table, discreetly kicks his shin and gives him a meaningful look.  Zhenya blushes and looks away.

Off the ice, Crosby waddles.  On the ice he's a god, powerful and full of the unearthly elegance people expect from divinum, but as soon as he steps off it he's got this bowlegged, side-to-side way of walking that, if Zhenya is to be honest, must be called a waddle.  His body is gorgeous, of course, but it's hockey-gorgeous, unquestionably built for the ice, not for conventional beauty.

He's perfect, though.  His dorkiness just makes him slightly more approachable, chipping away just enough of the natural intimidation he bears due to both his talent as a player and his rare status as divinum.  His baby-face helps with that too, though Zhenya suspects Crosby will grow out of that soon.

Zhenya, idiot that he is, is fully prepared to deal with whatever envy he feels when he sees Crosby drinking from other people.  He wants with all his guts to be the one Crosby honors with his fangs and blood, but he's going to stand by his decision to wait for it until he can be sure he's truly earned the honor.  And that means being mature about who Crosby decides to drink from in the meantime.  Still, Zhenya watches closely.

Crosby, as a divinum, can really only drink from electi.  Other divinum are too rare to be a regular food source, and humans, since a divinum's bite will always either kill or turn them, are off limits outside of turning ceremonies.

Yet Crosby doesn't seem to ever drink from any of the electi on the team.  For how open and casual he allows his clan to be with their drinking, he's quite private regarding his own.  Zhenya's not actually sure who he gets his blood from, but team rumor says he's drinking from the former captain.  Which only strengthens Zhenya's point—if Crosby's used to blood from that sort of elite electi, there's no way the blood of an untested 20-year-old is good enough for his fangs.

So Zhenya's ready this time when, not long into the season, Crosby again offers to drink from each other.

"Thank you," Zhenya says as clearly as he can, the words practiced over and over with Sergei.  "But can't."

Crosby narrows his eyes.  "You can't?  Why not?"

"Not good enough," he says firmly, and Crosby looks taken aback.

"That's...an unusual response.  Did someone else tell you that—?"

"No," Zhenya interrupts, because if this conversation gets too far off track then his practiced speech isn't going to work anymore, and he'll be lost.  "Listen.  Please," he adds with a respectful bob of his head.  Crosby's lips quirk in a confused smile.

"Sure, I'm listening."

Zhenya attempts to remember the words he practiced with Sergei.  Unfortunately, in practicing he hadn't accounted for the effect that Sidney Crosby's attentive, focused stare would have on his memory and general intelligence.  All of his limited English tries to fly straight out of his head.

"You know I...get bite?" he scrambles to remember, getting a hold of himself.  "So young—when bite?"  Crosby nods slightly.

"Pretty rare to get the bite so young, yeah."

"Yes.  Because young, want to be sure.  When drink...divinum _,_ want to be sure...good enough.  Understand?"

"Oh."  Crosby's reaction is hard to place as he studies Zhenya a moment, his eyes searching and his expression elusive.  In contrast Zhenya feels stripped bare under his gaze.  "Huh.  That, uh, that really is an unusual response.  But if that's how you feel, I can respect that."  He pauses.  "So do you think...maybe eventually…?"

Zhenya isn't getting everything Crosby's saying, but he thinks he understands the gist.  He nods.

"Will try?  Be good enough.  Yes?"

Looking confused but curious, like Zhenya's something he's never seen before, Crosby says, "For sure.  Just, um, let me know, okay?  I'll be here until then.  See you around."  He leaves with a small smile, and Zhenya lets out a relieved breath.

He thinks that went well, even if he didn't quite catch everything Crosby said.  He understands Crosby's confusion—what turned vamp would dream of turning down a born vamp even if they felt unworthy?—but he feels comforted by the way Crosby was willing to hear him out and seemed to respect what he was saying, despite the oddness.  And maybe someday, when Zhenya's proven what he can really do, when he's finally good enough, Crosby will offer again.  And then Zhenya can accept without any doubt to hold him back.  Until then, all he can do is keep chasing after what he wants.

 

After they win the Cup in '09, Flower earns his bite, and Sid begins drinking from Flower.

Zhenya has been spoiled.  Up until now, Sid has never drank from any teammate—at least none that Zhenya has ever seen.  He knows Sid occasionally drinks from one of the electi on the Pirates and at least two of the Steelers—he says it's good for Pittsburgh sports—but other than that Sid never talks about where he gets his blood.  Zhenya hasn't had to deal with it.

But now, still flushed and happy post-win, Sid is curled up next to Flower on the plane back to Pittsburgh, their wrists pressed against each other's mouths.

Zhenya only sees them because he gets up to piss.  He doesn't think anyone else has noticed.  Most of the guys are passed out at this point, and it's not like Sid and Flower are making a big production about what's going on.  As far as drinking goes, they're being pretty discreet.

Flower's eyes are closed, a beatific expression on his face, punchdrunk on what's probably his first drink since being turned, and from a divinum to boot.  But Sid's eyes are open, and they meet Zhenya's as he stumbles down the aisle.

For a moment, Sid looks guilty.  His gaze drops, and his gentle sucking at Flower's wrist falters.  He probably hadn't wanted to rub it in Zhenya's face that he still wasn't worthy, and Zhenya and his bladder ruined his discretion.

Zhenya wants to reassure him—of course he can drink from who he wants, when he wants, of course he can—but this isn't the time or place, and Zhenya doesn't have the words.  So he squeezes Sid's shoulder, tight and friendly, and continues on.

He doesn't begrudge Flower anything.  Flower deserves this, no question.  Zhenya's envious, definitely, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want Flower to have this.  He just wants it too.

He'd hoped—with the Conn Smythe, with the Art Ross this year—Sid would tell him he'd at last earned what he'd already been given, and that he was good enough to drink from now.  He'd hoped this was it, the moment.  But Sid hasn't said anything.

Fuck this, Zhenya isn't going to be mopey when they have the damned Cup on the plane with them.  Sid's the divinum here—surely he can be trusted to judge when Zhenya's truly worthy.  He knows how important it is to Zhenya that he honestly earn Sid's blood and fangs in him, and he probably doesn't want to give it to Zhenya until all possible doubt is removed.  It's considerate.

Zhenya is just going to work even harder.  He can do this.

 

In 2012, Zhenya wins the Art Ross, the Hart, and the Lindsay all in one go, and he thinks maybe _this_ is it.  But still Sid doesn't say anything.

Well, no, that isn't true.  Sid tells him congratulations and tells him how proud of him he is, and it makes Zhenya giddy and smug with pleasure, but he doesn't tell him anything about the two of them getting their fangs near each other.

Flower is still the only one on the team Sid is drinking from, even though, after their Cup win, there are more electi to choose from, electi Sid knows well—Duper, Tanger, Kuni.  Sid and Flower are still pretty quiet about it, though they're not hiding, either.  It's not uncommon to find the two of them in a private corner drinking from each other.

Zhenya's happy for Flower, but it's getting harder and harder to see him that way with Sid and still be patient for when it will be Zhenya's turn.

Maybe Sid's changed his mind.  He was young when he so freely offered Zhenya his neck—his _neck_ , not just his wrist, an incredible honor—and maybe he regrets it now as an impulsive decision. It would be understandable.

God, Zhenya hates overthinking.  He's just running himself in circles now.  He can't help it—he's always been completely fucked where Sid is concerned.  Even back when he'd only just met him, when he'd just admired him for his breathtaking hockey, Sid's good opinion had been weightier to him than most people's.  He thinks this would have been the case even if Sid hadn't been what amounts to vampire royalty.  And now that he actually knows Sid, knows his soft smiles and dorky humor and unparalleled dedication?  He's got no chance of being objective.

On the bad days, he finds himself obsessively comparing himself to all the people he knows Sid has drank from more than a few times.  Antonio Brown, Joe Manganiello, that mousey novelist who lives in Sewickley and whose name Zhenya can never remember, and of course Flower—the only thing they have in common, besides being electi, is that they're all either Pittsburgh natives or Pittsburgh athletes.

Zhenya is a Pittsburgh athlete.  Zhenya is an electi—maybe one who was turned shamefully early, but by now he likes to hope he would have earned it fairly.  He doesn't know what else he can do.  His determination is beginning to stretch and scrape.

 

He thinks once about just asking Sid.  Their friendship is rock solid; it would survive the awkwardness.

His brain skitters away from the thought almost before it can complete.  Their friendship might survive Sidney regretfully telling him he's not interested anymore, but Zhenya wouldn't.  He can live like this indefinitely if he needs to, as long as he has hope for a someday.  Knowing for sure there's no chance of him ever sharing blood with Sid, drinking from him and being drunk from by him, would be so much worse.

Zhenya likes to think of himself as a brave person, but maybe that's always been a selective quality.

 

Every year, a part of Zhenya wonders if winning the Cup one more time will be what tips the balance in his favor.  A second Cup would put him tied even with the greats of their franchise.  Maybe that would at last be enough.

It's academic; every year, they fall short once again.  Every year, Zhenya's heart hungers anew and isn't satisfied.

But Zhenya has never learned how to give up hope, and finally, after seven years, they make it back.  The year everyone counted them out, they make it back to the Final, and then they win it all.

Sid wins the Conn Smythe this time.  All of Zhenya is delighted for him, except for the tiny part that thinks that if he'd won it again himself it would have better hedged his bets in Sid's eyes.

But even without the Conn Smythe, surely this time it's enough.  High with victory, Zhenya makes a resolution: if Sid doesn't say anything after _this,_ Zhenya will.  Enough fucking around.  If all this—two Cups, two Art Ross trophies, a Conn Smythe, a Lindsay, a Calder, a Hart—isn't enough in Sid's eyes, then it probably just means Sid changed his mind and Zhenya needs to face up to facts and move on with it.  Enough is enough.

God, Zhenya hopes Sid says something.

He decides he'll give Sid until after the parade.  If nothing by then, he'll take this into his own hands.

In the end, it turns out Sid doesn't need near that long.  He says something that night, still in the visitor's locker room in San Jose, drenched in champagne and happiness.  It's just that he doesn't say anything that Zhenya, in all his daydreaming, ever imagined he'd say.

"God, Geno," Sid says, squirming with pink-faced giddiness.  He's nestled into Zhenya's side, the Cup within reach for both of them.

Sid's long grown out of his baby-face, just like Zhenya always suspected he would.  Maybe Zhenya's lost all objectivity, but there's no one in the world, vampire or human, who's more gorgeous than Sid is, especially right now, when he's flushed and buoyant and grinning at Zhenya with tender-eyed delight.

"You were so good," Sid says, heart-twist earnest.  "You were incredible.  Just incredible."

The celebration is roaring around them, already fractioning into groups, but Zhenya in that moment feels like he and Sid are a mountain peak higher than it all, caught in a bubble all their own.  Is this really it, after all these years?  Has Zhenya finally done it?

Sid twists against him, fist clenching in the back of his shirt, and crushes him into a hug that's more of an excuse for Sid to bury his face in Zhenya's neck.  Zhenya's heartbeat stills and stutters as he feels Sid's scruff ghost against his own, as he feels Sid's breath paint his neck.

As he feels the tiny prick of a fang brushing against his skin.

"Please let me?" Sid whispers, so quiet even Zhenya can barely hear.  "I even got the Conn Smythe this time.  Please say it's enough."

"Let you _what_?" Zhenya stammers, his breathing shaky.

"You _know_ ," Sid whines, sharp and desperate.  The words vibrate against Zhenya's skin.  "Let me drink you, please.  Drink from me too.  I've gotta be good enough now, right?  This has gotta be enough."

Something terrible and wild is happening inside Zhenya's heart, and any second now it's all going to become too big for his chest.

"Sid," he says unsteadily.  "What you mean?  Good enough?"

Sid pulls back enough to stare up at him, brow beginning to furrow.  Zhenya would mourn the distance between them, except he needs all his remaining faculties for thinking right now, and Sid's mouth against his neck is not at all conducive for that.

"What?"  Sid looks around them, noting the potential audience, the deliriously happy teammates and surrounding cameras.  "C'mon, let's step out for a minute."  Zhenya nods in agreement, certain this isn't a conversation they want caught on film.  They peel out of the locker room together, ducking spraying champagne and beer and waving camera phones, and manage to find a private corner down a nearby hallway.  Sid's hand is still clenched in his shirt.

"So what are you saying, then?" Sid half-whispers, tugging at Zhenya's shirt as they stop.  He looks as outraged as someone who won the Cup an hour ago can look, eyes flashing.  "Are you seriously trying to tell me you actually forgot what you said?  About being good enough?  You're fucking shitting me, G.  If I've been waiting for nothing—"

"Good enough—you mean, my first year here," Zhenya interrupts, his brain making a few intuitive leaps that have to be wrong.  A terrible suspicion is growing within him, but there's no way Sid means…  He's a fucking divinum, why would he ever think Zhenya meant—?

"Of course I mean your first year.  Remember?  You told me you wanted to make sure the first divinum you drank from was good enough for you.  I mean, I completely agree—you're amazing, you definitely deserve the very best.  But I've been working so hard to be the best for you.  And this is it, right?  This is enough?"

Zhenya, in his horrified understanding, can't squeeze any words out of his closed-up throat.  Sid mistakes his silence for something it's not.

"I know I'm kind of a weird divinum," Sid determinedly presses forward, not knowing how his every word is now piercing Zhenya's already riddled chest.  "I'm not exactly beautiful or graceful the way we're supposed to be.  But there's not really anything I can do about that, and I always figured you were talking about hockey anyway.  Hockey's what matters most to you."  His hand tightens even more on Zhenya's sopping shirt.  "What matters most to both of us."

Zhenya can't breathe.  Shit.  This settles it, then.  They're both fucking idiots.

"Sid," Zhenya finally manages to say.  "Sid."  He can't decide if he wants to laugh hysterically or burst into tears, or just sink his fangs into Sid here and now.  He settles for reaching out to clutch Sid's arm.  "Fuck, Sid, listen.  I'm not mean _you_ when I'm say not good enough.  Mean _me_.  Was talking about _me_."

For a moment Sid just blinks at him.  "But that's ridiculous," he says flatly.  "You?  How on earth would you not be good enough?  You got turned at _nineteen_ , before you'd even played a single game in the NHL, you were that good.  And somehow, since coming here, you've been even better than everyone expected.  You're one in a billion."

"And you're divinum," Zhenya stresses heatedly, abruptly angry at how stupid Sid is, at how stupid they both are.  " _Divinum._  And you're Sidney Crosby, best hockey player in world.  So makes you, like, five times better than other divinum.  I'm just stupid kid who got bite before I'm earn it."

"Wait, what?"  Sid's gaze sharpens.  "Before you earn—?  G, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Metallurg want to keep me.  So they make sure I get bite early, before I do anything to deserve.  So I feel like I owe them, you know, so I'm stay with them.  Stay with clan."

For a moment, Sid quiets.  He studies Zhenya, and Zhenya does his best not to squirm.

"You actually believe this," Sid finally says.  There's something dark and hot and unreadable in his eyes.  "You've actually thought all this time...god.  G.  You're a moron."

" _You're_ one who think—"

"Yeah, we'll get to that," Sid interrupts unapologetically.  "First we're talking about this.  Even if that were Metallurg's plan, which yeah, might make some sense, do you really think the divinum don't know what we're doing?  That we'd just let ourselves be tricked into turning someone we didn't want to?"

"Busy time for divinum council," Zhenya says weakly.  "Easy to overlook—"

"I was on the council that decided your case."

Zhenya freezes.  "What?"

"There aren't very many of us," Sid continues calmly, eyes searching Zhenya's.  "Divinum, I mean.  A thousand at any given time, maybe two.  And we take the vetting of any potential electi seriously—for reasons mostly irrelevant, now, but the tradition has stuck around.  So even if we're not part of a regular council, whenever there's a candidate within a particular field, at least one of us who's considered an expert in that field is consulted.  I was the one called for your candidacy."

"You—what?"

"I consulted for the council that decided to give you the bite.  And Geno, I can promise you everyone there knew exactly what they were doing.  No one was tricked, and no one gave the decision anything less than their full, thorough attention."  Sid makes a face.  "Okay, except maybe Angelos.  He was the only dissenting vote, and that's only because he's an asshole and he knew I wanted—" He abruptly cuts off, blushing lightly—or maybe it's just the lingering effect of the alcohol.  "Anyway, point is, I can tell you firsthand your bite wasn't the result of some bureaucratic oversight.  You earned it as fairly as anyone else."

"I…"  Zhenya can't process this.  He squeezes his eyes shut.  "Fuck."

"I'm really sorry you thought all this time you hadn't deserved to be turned when you were."  When Zhenya opens his eyes, Sid's pressed even closer, looking up with a Crosby-earnest expression, like he can dictate Zhenya's feelings by sheer force of will.  "That's not the sort of thing that should ever happen."

"Sid," Zhenya says.  "Tell me something?"

"What?"

"That Angelos, on council—you say he know you wanted something.  What?"

"Oh."  Sid's definitely blushing, but he doesn't shy his eyes away.  "I...was really excited to play with you.  And I might have had a...crush, of sorts, on you.  I was hoping, when you came over to America, you might be willing to be...mine."

"Yours?" Zhenya echoes hoarsely.  Sid's close enough to count lashes.

"It's...kind of an older practice.  More common a couple centuries ago.  Divinum sometimes pick a special electi, just for them.  The two only drink from each other—other people can drink from them, but they only drink from each other.  Sometimes, in rare cases, there's supposed to be a special bond that can eventually form, between a really compatible pair who've had only each other's blood for a long enough amount of time.  It's called a, uh, a thrall-bond, but that's not—the word 'thrall' has kind of been misused, historically, so don't think it means—it's not like in the movies or anything—"

"You had crush on me?"

Sid blinks, and his eyes turn a little flinty.  "Are you going to make fun of me for it?  I'm not embarrassed about how I felt.  And it's not like I was planning on forcing or tricking you into a thrall-bond if you weren't interested—"

"Not make fun," Zhenya reassures.  He squeezes Sid's arm again, meeting his eyes with all the warmth and honesty he possesses.  "You say, had crush, had feelings.  Don't still have?  Only have when young?"

"Oh.  Uh, well."  Sid's lips quirk in a crooked half-smile.  "I probably wouldn't call it a crush now, no."

Zhenya's heart is thudding steadily.  "Now...maybe is more than crush?"

"I don't know, G," says Sid, looking amused and fond and a little breathlessly anticipatory all at once.  He glances down at their bodies, pressed close and curling towards each other, and wryly cocks an eyebrow up at him.  "Why don't—why don't you tell me."

Zhenya takes a breath, then takes a leap and says firmly, "You love me."

As easily as that, Sid's smile cracks open wide, like he's helpless to stop it.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I really do."  His eyes crease with happiness, and he tugs Zhenya a half-inch closer.  "And you love me."

Zhenya loves him so much he's positively stupid with it.  He'd thought the whole world knew that.

"So much, Sid.  Can't believe you ever think I'm say you're not good enough."

"I think we can agree we both made some pretty stupid assumptions.  We can argue later about whose were the most stupid."

Zhenya's going to win that argument.  Anyone who was stupid enough to believe an electi would ever think they were too good to drink from a divinum should really just automatically forfeit.  It's a good thing Sidney's so good at hockey, because apparently he's a damned idiot everywhere else.

When Zhenya says as much, Sid grins, sharp-toothed and bright-eyed.

"Yeah?"  He yanks Zhenya the final few inches closer until their bodies are flush.  "Bite me, Geno."

Zhenya's about to chirp him some more, when Sid suddenly tilts his head back just enough to expose the pale of his neck beneath his sad, scraggly beard, and all Zhenya's words die an early death in his throat.  He realizes what exactly Sid had said.

Sid, always an opportunist, takes Zhenya's hands while he's busy realizing and moves them to the sides of his face, so he's cradling Sid's head between his palms, Sid's hands laced over his.

"Sid?"

"I think we've sufficiently established that we both think each other good enough to drink from," Sid says steadily.  He guides Zhenya's hands so they're angling Sid's head a little more to the side, leaving a broader arch of neck available.  Zhenya's mouth waters.  "So why waste more time?"

"You sure?"

"Geno.  Get your fucking fangs in me already."

Zhenya folds down, crowding Sid to the wall, and lets his lips brush against Sid's neck.  This close, Sid can't hide his shiver.  This close, Zhenya can't hide his.

He thinks about saying something, but in the end he just opens his mouth, erases that final centimeter of distance between them, and sinks his fangs into the soft skin of Sid's neck.

Fuck.  Divinum blood is _amazing_.  Or maybe it's just because it's Sid.  Either way, it's the best thing Zhenya's ever tasted—heaven and fireworks and a game-winning goal, laced with sex and ecstasy.  He's only one gulp in and he already feels shivery and otherworldly.

"God," Sid sighs out.  His hands slide down to Zhenya's wrists, keeping him in place.  "Keep going, G."

Zhenya does.  He takes pull after pull from Sid's blood, sweet and silvery and perfect, and the only thing that makes it easy to stop once he's sated is the knowledge that he can ask Sid for this whenever he wants now.

He straightens away, and Sid's eyes, heavy and lidded, follow him.

"My turn?" Sid asks.  Zhenya nods eagerly.  "Where do you want my teeth?"

"Neck," Zhenya says.  He almost says leg, but just in time he decides that's probably one bite-zone better left for later.

Gently, inexorably, Sid flips them, presses Zhenya's back to the wall, presses in against his front, and presses to his toes.

"Rest your head back," he murmurs against Zhenya's jaw.  Zhenya does.  A moment later, he feels Sid's mouth latching on, followed swiftly by the piercing bite of his teeth sinking deep.

It hurts for a second or two—it always does—but then Zhenya's system begins to flood with something warm and floaty, and _shit_ , that's good.  Having someone drink from you is always a pretty pleasant experience, but Zhenya's never felt anything like this.  Again, he can't tell if it's because it's from a divinum or just because it's Sid, but it's incredible.  Like his entire body is perpetually caught in the best afterglow of his life.

It takes him a few seconds to realize he's babbling words of praise and love and pleasure, and a few seconds more to realize he's doing it in Russian.

"I like hearing you talk," Sid eventually pulls away from his neck long enough to say, licking a drop from his flushed-pink lips, eyes flicking up to Zhenya's.  "But your jaw bouncing around while you do is not really helpful right now."  Zhenya obligingly quiets, and Sid, single-minded, dives back in.

By the end of it, Zhenya is a weak-kneed mess, and Sid doesn't look like he's doing much better.  The two of them end up slumped against the wall next to each other on the floor, where they had sank together mid-drink when Zhenya's legs had given up on him.  Both of them still seem to be catching their breath and their bearings, yet still all Zhenya wants to do is pull Sid in and kiss him breathless for long enough that they'll both be hungry again by the time they stop.

He's still trembling.

"We better get back, they're going to be looking for us," Sid says.  "And the Cup…"

Oh god—Zhenya can't believe he almost forgot about the Cup.  On top of everything else tonight, they won the _Cup_.

"Sid."  Zhenya waits until Sid twists to look at him before continuing.  "Next time you hungry, come drink from me.  Only me."

Sid's expression doesn't twitch.  "Are you saying you want to try to form a thrall-bond?"

Zhenya nods.  "If you still want."

"I do, of course, but…" Sid pauses.  "Do you want to know a little more about what it might actually do to us, before you decide?"

"You want this," Zhenya shrugs, "think it's good idea, then I want too.  Tell me more, sure, but I already decide."

Something decidedly heated flickers behind Sid's eyes.  "Can I kiss you?"

Zhenya chuckles and, tiredly, tugs him in close.

"Only need ask, I give whenever," he says, hushed, as their noses brush.

"Yeah?" Sid says, just as hushed.  "Then I'll keep that in mind."

With the inevitability of magnets, the rest of the distance closes between them, and, eyes lidded and skin flushed, they meet in the middle for a tender, soft kiss.  Lightly their lips move together, learning each other's shape, sweetly electrifying, neither of them in a rush.  It's perfect, and when Sid mumbles into his mouth, "Wait, G, the Cup," Zhenya has to pull away to laugh.

"You were thinking it too," Sid says, smile twitching, looking dopey with happiness.

"No, I'm think, 'Oh god Sid feel so good, smell so good, I like him so much, so happy finally kiss him—'"

Sid interrupts him with a smiling press of a kiss, and Zhenya happily lets it happen.

"Seriously though," Sid says after another minute, pulling back again.  "Let's go find the Cup."

Zhenya sighs heavily.  "Can only distract you from best love so long," he says jokingly, admitting defeat. Sid climbs to his feet and extends a hand down.  Zhenya accepts it and is tugged to his feet.

"Are you saying you _don't_ want to make out with me over the top of the Cup?" Sid says, grinning slyly.  "Because we don't have to."

Zhenya blinks.  When his brain kicks back on, he starts immediately shoving Sid towards the end of the hallway.

"Move, c'mon, let's go.  Why you so slow, Sid?  Have to go find Cup, stop waste time."

Sid laughs and takes Zhenya's hand in his.  And, together, the two of them make their way to the locker room, to their team, and to—for the next few months, at least—their Cup.

 

One day shy of one year later, when they win the Cup _again_ , right before the final buzzer sounds Zhenya feels in the back of his head a faint echo-burst of elation that doesn't quite feel like his own.  And then in the crush of teammates slamming together out on the ice in celebration, he somehow knows exactly where Sid is in the pile the whole time, like there's some part of him that's just a ghostly extension of Zhenya.

When his hands finally find Sid in the crowd, Sid's entire face is glowing.

"Geno, Geno—did you feel it?  The bond?"  He clutches at Zhenya like he can't bear to keep his hands from him.  "You can feel it, right?  Feel me?"

"Can feel, Sid.  We did it!"

Sid laughs, warm and bright.  There's a fierce-eyed joy to him as he looks at Zhenya, a naked, unashamed fondness, that makes Zhenya's skin hum and his mouth water in response.  He thinks he can count on getting Sid's fangs in him the minute they step off the ice tonight.

"I knew we could make it here, G.  I knew it."

Zhenya doesn't know if Sid's talking about the Cup or the nascent thrall-bond unfurling between them, and he supposes he doesn't care.  Zhenya's got Sid, he's got his clan, he's got a career that, objectively, he's really fucking proud of.  It's enough. _He's_ enough.

And he's nowhere near done.  The hunger he's carried in his heart for decades still hums strong as ever, and he knows, even without the bond whispering to him, that it's the same for Sid—Sid, who's never satisfied so long as there's a higher level of excellence to chase after.  Sid, who never learned how to not be hungry.  Sid, who calls Zhenya one in a billion, without any hesitation or doubt.

They're still going to do incredible things, the two of them.  Zhenya's going to enjoy following Sid there every step of the way.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Say When by Withershins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11743053) by [brightnail](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightnail/pseuds/brightnail)




End file.
